


JC/Lance 2001-2002

by afterthefair



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-01
Updated: 2002-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2085378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterthefair/pseuds/afterthefair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of short JC/Lance fics, harvested from my old (now down) site. Posted by request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Non-Relationship

**Author's Note:**

> All of my JC/Lance stories from 2001-2002, uploaded by request. In terms of quality, this was _12 years ago_ and they were unbetaed. Let's look with nostalgia, shall we?

"Either you don't have the balls or you don't feel the same."  
\- "Overlap", Ani Difranco

* * *

Lance doesn't think of JC as just a quick fuck. He's a good friend, a 

solid confidant, someone to be serious with when the other guys are acting 

like twelve-year-olds. They understand each other well.

* * *

4 A.M. A Room in The Four Seasons

  
"I don't know how you do it. I can't just go out and fuck the first girl I find. I don't work like that. I couldn't just use a woman like that." 

"But you can use JC?" 

"Joe, it isn't using him. We both know what we want out of this. No relationship, no groupies telling all to the tabloids. It's safer this way." 

* * *

He doesn't see what the big deal is. They all need different outlets. It's 

a natural human desire to want something that takes away all your thoughts 

and doubts and emotions and just lets you feel numb. Justin plays 

basketball. Chris uses sarcasm. Why can't Lance have JC?

* * *

5 P.M. On the way to a TV studio

  
"Entertainment Weekly's coming tomorrow, so can we all try to be sober in the morning?" 

A chorus of "Yes, Johnny"s.

JC smirks. "So Justin, are you gonna be making any comments on Britney's new flotation devices?" 

"Only if you tell them why your new nickname is 'Lance Bass's Booty Call.'" 

"Fuck off, Junior." 

* * *

When they're curled up like this, whether in some nondescript hotel room or 

in Lance's bedroom at home, it makes sense. No jokes from the guys, no 

bitching from management, just shared body heat and contentment and that 

closeness that comes from knowing someone almost too well. Wrapped up in 

this cocoon, Lance starts to wonder when all this comfort started to become 

uncomfortable.

* * *

1 A.M. Flight 266, New York to Orlando, First Class Cabin

  
"Do you love him?" 

"Of course. I love all of you, Chris." 

"Not to state the obvious here, but you're not having sex with the rest of us." 

"But that's exactly the point. If any of you had the same ... proclivities that JC and I do, I wouldn't necessarily be with him. It's not a relationship." 

"Does he know that?" 

* * *

JC is looking at him with confusion and pain in his eyes. Lance never 

understood when people said they could read emotions in the eyes of others, 

but now he's starting to get it. The feelings are there so plainly that he'd 

have to be blind or stupid to not see them, and he knows now that this was

the right decision. He never thought he'd be giving the "let's just be

friends" speech to this particular friend, but it's the only choice now,

isn't it?

Isn't it?


	2. Protracted

When Joey gets back from the club, the perfume of this evening's conquest 

still detectable on his body, he sees Justin and Chris sitting in the lounge 

of the bus, rapping along to Tone Loc's "Wild Thing" . Something about 

hearing Justin say "I need fifty dollars to make you holler" has always been 

deeply unsettling to him.

"Old school rap? I must have missed something majorly bad." 

Chris looks up, slightly startled by Joey's entrance. "Mom and Dad are fighting." 

Joey settles onto the couch behind Justin, confused at that admission. "Again? What was it this time?" 

Justin fields this one. "Lance came back from the club later than we did. You saw how drunk he was when we were there. Well, JC got pissed and told him to quit fucking around when we're on tour. And then Lance called JC a whiny bitch." 

Joey can all too easily picture this. Lance is more even-tempered than the rest of them put together while sober, but alcohol tends to bring out the best and worst extremes of his personality. When he gets drunk, you can find him either acting sweet and pawing at JC, or sitting with Chris trading sarcastic barbs about whatever new victim crosses their path. And you never know which Lance you're going to get. 

"Where are they now?" 

"JC's writing, and I'm saying for the record that we are never singing whatever he's coming up with in this mood. Lance is sleeping it off." 

Joey nods while Justin smirks at Chris' firm opinion of JC's writing. 

* * *

Lance wakes up to warmth at his back and an arm loosely wrapped around his waist. His first thought is his eternal question of how someone with roughly two percent body fat can generate that much heat. But it's comforting. He's gotten used to it. Come to count on it. And recently, become deeply afraid that he'll have to live without it. 

"Stop thinking. I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head." 

"Not to sound ungrateful, but why are you here?" 

"What, you're an asshole, so I have to punish myself?" Lance winces at JC's all too true words. "I may be a whiny bitch, but I'm your whiny bitch." 

Lance struggles to turn over on the narrow bunk. He can see JC's eyes in the early morning light, blue irises and slightly dilated pupils, but they're flat, dead, showing no emotion at all. He shivers at the disturbing feeling that gives him. Emotion usually pours off JC in waves, no matter what he's feeling. 

"I didn't mean it-" 

"Yes, you did." 

"Okay, but I'm sorry I said it." 

JC nods, that dead look still in his eyes. "I guess that'll have to do for now." 

JC turns his back to Lance, but he doesn't protest when Lance curls around him, and for that, Lance is grateful.

* * *

They're still having sex, even in the midst of glaring at each other and saying passing cruelties and driving everyone insane with the bickering. They're still having sex on a regular basis, and Lance chooses to believe that it's because they still love each other and still want to be close, and not a last ditch effort to pretend there's a relationship when it's obviously over. He doesn't know JC's opinion, and knows he's too afraid to ask for it. 

* * *

"Maybe if you were neater you'd be able to find things once in a while," Lance mutters, simultaneously hoping JC will hear and afraid that if he does, they'll be in for another pointless fight. 

They're in a nondescript hotel room, late to get on the bus, both frantically searching for one of JC's notebooks. Apparently, when Lance was out the night before, JC lost track of the thing, which is both out of the ordinary and disconcerting. If JC is careless with anything, it's not his work. 

"You know, for someone who spends half his life inebriated, you can sure be an anal-retentive ass." JC's voice from under the bed brings Lance back to his previous comment, but before he can respond, JC emerges with the small spiral book. 

He barely looks at Lance as he grabs his bags and says, "Let's go." 

* * *

Somehow, no one quite understands why, but somehow, they always manage to pull their relationship back together for the intro to "This I Promise You." Maybe it's just a performance high, maybe it's because they're professionals, but when they're out there, talking on stage, pretending to be just good friends, Lance can't help but see the man he loves. And he knows JC sees the same thing. 

* * *

They spend another week in near silence until Lance can't take it anymore. He picks a fight with JC over something stupid and they've escalated to yelling before JC suddenly gets very quiet and drops his eyes to the floor of the hotel room. 

"I'm tired of doing this with you." He says it so quietly Lance can barely hear him, but he still feels the icy grip those words leave on his heart. 

"What exactly are you tired of, JC?" 

"I'm not just a convenience, Lance. I'm not here just to provide someone for you to fuck regularly. I'm here to hold your hand when you're nervous, and make sure you get a few hours of sleep every night, and just be there. And you're supposed to do the same for me." JC contemplates the floor for a few more seconds before looking back up at Lance. "If we're gonna continue to not do that for each other, then we should end this before it gets any worse. You were my best friend, and I refuse to lose both my friend _and_ my lover." 

Lance wants to protest, to say something to make it all go away, to undo all the damage and get back that light that JC used to have in his eyes whenever he looked at him. But he doesn't say anything. They both stand there staring at each other, hoping the other one will break the silence. When JC abruptly stalks out of the room with neither of them having said a word, Lance finds himself equally confused and scared. 

* * *

"Lance. Sir Lancelot. The Lanstenator." 

"Chris, if you don't stop the Rob Schneider crap, I'll be forced to remove you bodily from the room." Lance barely looks up from his laptop as Chris sits on the couch near him. "What can I help you with, son?" He finally looks at Chris's face and feels a little worried at the serious expression there. 

"Well, I was the one chosen to say this, and you were the one chosen to hear it. And since neither of us are gonna be happy with that choice by the time I'm through, I'll get it over with quickly." Chris takes a deep breath, seems to gather himself, and then resumes speaking. "I don't know what's going on with you and JC. I don't care to know; it's none of my business. But, this shit has got to stop." 

"I don't know what you mean." Lance looks down to avoid Chris's eyes. 

"Lance, you don't know how much I wish I didn't have to hear the details of your personal problems. But this has ceased to be personal. It's affecting all of us. Sure, you guys still act like things are okay in front of the rest of us. But, dude, even Johnny's been asking what's up. And he wants to know even less than I do." 

"We're just fighting. That's completely normal. We've been together practically forever and you never expected us to have a fight?" The explanation sounds a little lacking even as it leaves his mouth and Lance finds himself mentally begging Chris to just drop the issue. 

"I don't buy it, Lance. You two fight over stupid things, sure, but never for this long." Chris pauses. "And it's never been this serious. We're worried." 

"You don't have to be. JC and I are fine. We're just going through a rough patch. We'll get over it and everything will get back to normal." He's just going through the motions now, hoping Chris doesn't notice how his voice has started to quaver, how obvious it is that he doesn't believe a word he's saying. 

Apparently Chris knows this is as much resolution as he's getting. "We just want you guys to find a way to fix things." Chris affects a mournful expression. "'Cause if Mom and Dad get a divorce, poor little Justin will probably start wetting the bed again." 

Lance laughs halfheartedly as Chris gets up to leave, but then a thought occurs to him. 

"Hey, which one of us is Mom and which is Dad?" 

Chris cackles a little maniacally as he exits the room. 

* * *

The silence on their end of the bus is almost comfortable. Joey, Justin and Chris have been giving them a wide berth recently, forcing them to either work out their problems or, at the very least, suffer through them on their own. 

So, now Lance pretends to nap, watching JC hunched over his keyboard. He can see fields and cattle passing by behind JC's head, but he has no idea where they are. Not that it would make a difference if he did know. Tour life is all about repetition and impermanence: it doesn't particularly matter where you are because you're doing the same thing with the same people every night. 

It had bothered him for the first few years. Being on another continent was alien enough, and feeling rootless for months didn't help. Some nights he would get panicky, but he was at that age where running to his mom was out of the question, even if she would've loved to feel needed, and the other guys didn't seem like a viable option either. Unerringly, on those nights JC would show up at his door unannounced, and they'd spend hours talking about nothing, planning practical jokes to pull on the other guys, singing random songs to each other. Even when he'd outgrown his fears, and he and JC spent every night together, they'd still perform that tour ritual occasionally, knowing when to comfort each other. They hadn't done it in a long time. 

"JC?" 

JC doesn't even look up from the keyboard, just moves his headphones from one ear to show he's listening. 

"JC, where are we?" 

"Somewhere in the middle of California. I'm not sure exactly." 

"JC?" 

"Yeah, Lance?" 

"Sing to me?" 

JC looks up and takes off his headphones, surprised at the request, and says nothing. He and Lance stare at each other until Lance feels like kicking himself, and opens his mouth to take it all back. But before he can say anything, JC smiles at him with a slight glimmer in his eyes. 

And then JC begins to sing.


	3. Murmur

I wax rhapsodic on his eyes now. My natural nervousness about how I present myself to people has multiplied exponentially now that I can't hear what I'm saying. But,   
JC gives me this time to just pour out the words I have to keep inside. Early morning, before dawn, lights out, I can let out that internal voice that is the only thing I hear now. And even if I don't know how I sound to him, I know JC needs this time too.

I tell him that's it's true what they say about every sense being heightened when one is gone. All the things I never paid particular attention to before are vitally important now. The vibrations of his body against my back when he holds me and talks to me in his own morning ritual. The taste of his skin during sex, sweat and cologne and his own unique chemistry a flavor that I couldn't find anywhere else. And the silver blue of his eyes, that somehow communicate to me more than the movement of his lips as he speaks slowly to me, or the sign language he threw himself into learning as soon as he was able. 

The accident was hard on all of us. A car crash. JC was driving. And when I woke up in the hospital, with casts and tubes and more blinking white monitors than I could count, I realized I couldn't hear a single one of the reassurances Joey was obviously giving me from the side of the bed. The doctors wrote it all down for me, a trauma to the head that luckily left my skull intact, but managed to break some of the fragile connections in my ears. And, instantly, the life I knew was over. What use is a harmony singer who can't hear? 

The casts came off after weeks, JC and I both got used to our scars, and he learned to live with the slight limp in his right leg. We've all moved on. Chris made it his goal in life to learn every obscene phrase sign language had to offer. Joey started a collection of pimp canes to go with every formal outfit JC owns. Justin waited a respectful amount of time before gifting JC with the nickname "the gimp", which pisses me off, but perversely makes JC giggle. I'm accepting the fact that I'll never hear that sound again. 

There's light coming in through the drawn curtains now, just enough to let me see those eyes I keep talking about. I'm not paying attention to what I'm saying, really. Just letting words flow out in a rush. I've consciously made the decision to let him keep this part of me, the comfort of my voice. I thought I'd go insane those first few weeks, when all I wanted was to hear him say it would be all right, hear him sing to me, hear him make any noise at all, and all I could hear were my own desperate thoughts. I never want him to go through that. 

His eyes sparkle at me, the pupils contracting with the light, and I'm struck again at how I never paid enough attention to them before. The blue becomes a soft gray as he blushes at something I've said and I grin as I feel the heat in his cheeks. It's just one more thing I've discovered about him, one more thing to help make everything okay when the sound of my own voice in my head is grating, and I cry at the sight of his scars, and I can't think for just wanting my life back. I'm slowly learning that sparkling eyes and a soft blush aren't much, but they're enough.


	4. I'd Be Rich

"Do you think we'll ever really be famous?" he'd asked JC one night.

They had found themselves stretched out on the couch in the bus, the other guys in various states of unconsciousness around them, Chris and Joey leaning against each other, Justin slumped over the video game controller in a way that reminded Lance that he was only fifteen. JC was, for once, not asleep at this hour of night, and when Lance had felt someone sit next to him on the couch as he watched the endless blackness of the road roll by, he was shocked to find it was JC. 

"We'll be famous. We'll be ridiculously famous, and have nice houses and big screen TVs, and you can buy your mom the kind of jewelry I saw you looking at in Hamburg last week." JC smiled slightly at him, and Lance got that coiled tension feeling in the pit of his stomach that he always did when JC smiled at him. At first, he'd written it off as girly, and tried not to think about it. But he was slowly learning to appreciate that feeling, and JC seemed to notice nothing, so he accepted it. 

"But, really, what are the odds? I mean, we can sing and y'all can dance, and that's great and all, but lots of people do that. What makes us special?" He twisted the hem of his shirt in his hands as he spoke. He hadn't wanted to voice these fears in front of the other guys. Though he knew that sometimes Chris got really quiet and went out drinking, and Justin could sometimes be heard on the other end of the bus crying as his mother murmured something to him, Lance hadn't wanted to seem like a wuss. He'd come into this late, and he still had that nagging fear that if he seemed to not be as gung-ho as everyone else, they'd find another pretty blond boy who could sing bass. 

JC put a hand on his chin, forcing Lance to look up into his eyes. "We want this more than other people. We know it's what we're supposed to do. That's what makes us different." His voice dropped in volume as he spoke, and once he was done, he stared at Lance, seeming to wait for some confirmation from the other boy. Lance blushed and nodded, his chin still caught firmly in JC's hand, the tension in his stomach getting tighter and tighter the longer JC held on. 

JC let go finally, leaning back to stretch out on the couch. He started singing softly, a song Lance vaguely recognized from Stacey's CD collection. He chuckled along at some of the lines, not getting some of the references, but enjoying JC's voice all the same. 

"...If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you an exotic pet, like a llama, or an emu. And if I had a million dollars, I'd buy you John Merrick's remains, ooh all them crazy elephant bones. And if I had a million dollars, I'd buy your love..." 

He winked at Lance on that line, and Lance, turning back to watch the night fly past the window, thought he could get used to the funny feeling in his stomach.


	5. Perpetual Motion

This is inspired greatly by Amand-r's Highlander story ["Heat Goes to Cold."](http://www.crosswinds.net/~amandr/fiction/heat.html)

* * *

You wake up, JC curled around you, an arm thrown over you, hand possessively clenched against your stomach. The wake-up call will come in fifteen minutes, and you always wake up precisely a quarter of an hour ahead of it. 

You turn in your lover's arms and he clutches at you, moaning slightly until you settle against him. "Ten more minutes?" he sighs, and you grunt in assent, trying to keep him slightly awake. A JC who's been awakened by surprise is not a happy JC. He burrows into your chest, humming against your skin as you stroke his back. You secretly believe that some part of him thinks that if your body's shielding him from the sunlight, then it's not really daytime and he won't have to wake up. It would explain why you're always stuck on the side of the bed closest to the window. 

When the wake-up call comes, JC has been murmuring nonsense to you and looking at you with that rapt "I love you _so_ much" look for about eight minutes. And you remember the real reason you wake up before the call. 

You ignore the call, as always, and you haul yourself out of bed, bickering with him about who gets the first shower until you finally push and pull him towards the bathroom, knowing he'll need the pounding hot water to fully wake up. 

Joey knocks on your door to tell you breakfast is in Justin's room. He says something about the group needing "together time" and how the two of you should spend the bulk of the day on the three-man bus. You agree, even though you know Chris will get stir-crazy around three in the afternoon, and Justin will be glued to his cell phone, and you have the niggling suspicion that this has something to do with the girl Steve picked up last night. Joey claps you on the back, and walks off to wake Chris. 

* * *

When both you and JC are dressed and packed, you head to Justin's room to meet the others. You have a short drive today, and you're enjoying the luxury of spending time in a hotel for something other than sleeping. 

Justin, Joey, and Chris are already at the table when you arrive, various members of your entourage flitting around them and in and out of the room. You and JC grab whatever looks halfway appetizing and settle at the table. You've always liked this little bit of normalcy, sitting down for a meal with your family. And you recognized early on that that's exactly what this is. You also happened to mention that to the others, and had to punch Justin on the arm when he said, "Mom, can I borrow the car tonight?" You sit back and watch the four of them interact now, smiling into your orange juice when Chris looks up and flashes you a bright smile. While Justin pouted and bitched about how he bruised easily, Chris had quietly told you that he knew what you meant. 

* * *

Your first order of the day is an interview with a teen magazine. You hate them with a passion, but they're necessary. When you're on your own, you slip into Hollywood mode, and answer questions in an adept, charming manner. But, group interviews make you revert to being the shy one. You tend to smile stupidly, and watch the others make fun of you. The only good aspect of these things is getting to laugh to yourself at interviewers who apparently haven't been paying enough attention to know that you don't ask JC a question if you want it answered succinctly. 

He's going on now, something about artistic integrity and not pandering to your audience, and you stare at him, probably mimicking his earlier rapt expression. Justin kicks your ankle, and smiles sweetly at you when you scowl his way. He also nods in the direction of the interviewer, who's getting that glazed look they sometimes get when they can't follow JC's rambles. Bored interviewers like to notice interesting things, and you know that your staring at JC will almost certainly pique interest. You nod at Justin, and then shoot a look at Chris, who also has that glazed look, and is currently distracting himself by picking lint off of Joey's sweater. You highly doubt that Joey's carrying enough lint to require Chris's intense concentration, but you all have your ways of amusing yourselves. 

Chris finally catches your intent gaze, and looks a question at you. You look at JC, then back at Chris, and a smile breaks across Chris's face. He suddenly whirls on Joey and tackles him to the ground, something that will get excused because it's Chris. JC stops short, gaping at him, then swinging his head towards you, an eyebrow arched in a query. You smile apologetically at him, and then deftly answer the interviewer's next question. 

* * *

JC's lounging next to you at the table on the bus, apparently trying to catch a nap, while still spending time with you. You, on the other hand, are talking to Meredith, earphone perched haphazardly in your ear, the other ear trying vainly to pay attention to the video Wendy sent you of the first movie by some writer/director she likes. You idly flip through a script by the same guy. The laptop's open in front of you, showing an email from your mom, which details your hectic schedule for this month. You realize it's time to get a personal assistant. 

As you finish your call, Chris looks up from his spot on the floor in front of the TV. 

"If you were a superhero, you'd be Mogul Boy, able to launch business ventures in a single bound." 

Joey turns away from wrestling Justin for his bag of chips to intone seriously, "Chris, that joke sucked ass." 

Chris shrugs and looks pointedly at you, before grabbing the hotly contested bag of chips and running to the back of the bus, Justin on his heels. 

You're slightly unnerved. It took you a few years to understand that sometimes Chris's teasing is a way of getting a point across. Only the fool can speak the truth. Or something. 

You wonder if you _are_ doing too much. You understand it's sheer terror of instability that motivates you, but perhaps it's gone too far. Who really needs to be a singer-actor-manager-movie producer-student? In theory, no one. But you have to keep moving, because how long can this possibly last, how long will your name and image sell your work, how long will you be able to sleep on a bus for months at a time, or sing and dance for thousands of screaming girls? 

"You done?" JC asks, and when you look up he's standing next to you, an understanding smile on his face and in his still sleepy eyes. He plucks the earphone from your ear and whispers, "It's okay if you burn out at thirty-five. It'll give me an excuse to whisk you away to a Tuscan villa for the rest of our lives." Only JC could say that and make you think he means it. You grin at him. He winks back, and then turns to Joey. "Joe, I'm switching buses with you and Steve tonight." 

Joey raises an eyebrow. "Just remember -" 

"Yeah, no sex on the bus. You don't have to remind us every time." 

Joey pouts at the two of you. "Being scarred for life once was more than enough for me. Seeing that again could do me serious damage." JC tosses a throw pillow at his head. 

* * *

You start to wonder when all the fans started to bleed together for you. It's not that you don't notice the calm and eloquent ones, or the few that are older than you would expect, but for the most part, you see a mass of screaming girls, whether that be two or two thousand of them. You can remember the early days, when sixty people were a big crowd, even if they were mostly friends and relatives. And somehow, now there are tens of thousands. You wonder where all the time in between the extremes went. 

The girls at this Meet and Greet are mostly normal. They blush when you speak to them, and wear more sparkles and spandex than you thought there was in the world, and you hope no one will faint today, or ask you an embarrassingly personal question, or vow that they're saving themselves for you. Luckily, controlled physical proximity tends to inspire some sort of reticence on their part, which is why you've come to appreciate Meet and Greets. 

You're doing your normal "smile, sign, say something innocuous and vaguely charming" routine as you watch the fans squeal and redden and, god, a few are crying, big fat tears rolling down their cheeks as they struggle to get out a few words, and you've never gotten comfortable with that. You try to imitate Justin's look of happy shock that says both "I'm not worth crying over" and "I'm personally moved that you, in particular, are crying over me." No wonder he's the fan favorite. 

Joey nudges you under the table and leans over to whisper to you. "Look up from under your eyelashes. Justin says it makes you seem sweet and vulnerable. Otherwise, you've almost got the look down." You snort at the comment, and somehow it puts you at ease. But you still don't think you can do coy that well. 

* * *

By the time you've finished signing and smiling and taking pictures, you're exhausted. You've learned the hard way that being part of *NSYNC is two jobs: singer and popstar. And the two are completely different things, regardless of the fact that they go hand in hand. You try to put the popstar away as you get ready to go onstage, focusing on performing and putting on a good show. You note how much time you have left before your opener finishes their set, running harmonies and dance steps in your head as you put on the first costume of the evening. JC stops his shiny new scooter next to you, kisses you on the nose, and then rolls away happily. He's halfway to full concert spazziness now, and you know he'll be jumping up and down, and punching the air, and making a general nuisance of himself in about twenty minutes. You promise yourself that one day you'll get ready early enough to sit down and watch the full transformation from your serious lover into the man that whips glowsticks at screaming teenyboppers. 

When you're done dressing and praying and kicking the hackey, you head to the stage. Chris reminds you to be careful in "I Want You Back." You got distracted by a particularly bright camera flash at the last concert and nearly dropped him during the flip. Your mind goes autopilot on the really old songs, and you think that if you have to perform that one for a few more years, one day you might just drop him in protest. 

JC jumps on your back and gives you a loud smooch on the neck as you're walking. He jumps off of you, smacks you on the ass, and literally skips off to his harness. You grin. Full spazziness has been achieved. 

* * *

The concert goes just like any other, loud crowd, good performance, another reminder of why it is you left home to do this almost six years ago. You're not feeling your normal post-show endorphin rush though, and you're glad you can get on the bus and go to sleep. 

You wave a 'goodnight' to the guys, hearing Chris and Steve talk about a Playstation marathon, while Joey and Justin discuss the annoyance of having to ride the whole night through, instead of clubbing. JC's hand is on the small of your back as you climb onto the bus. 

The steady movement of the wheels beneath you is comforting as you and JC undress for bed. You don't know when you started to dislike the idea of staying in one place for more than a few days, but you've noticed you get antsy when it happens. The only thing you miss about a real life is a real bed, and waking up in a place you recognize. The bus doesn't fit the bill. 

JC has already crawled into the bunk when you hear him say, "Stop brooding." Your head snaps up at the admonishment and you try a sweet smile on him, hoping to distract him from asking you where your mind's been all day. He knows you get into these moods, where everything has a sudden gravity and you can't stop trying to wrap your mind around it, looking for the one piece of the puzzle that will enable you to sit back and understand it. You need to have a handle on things. It's part of your nature. 

Apparently the sweet smile's worked, or at least JC is willing to pretend it has, because he holds out a hand to you and helps you clamber in next to him, after you've turned out the light above the bunks. You kiss him goodnight and as you start to turn over so he can curl around you, he places a hand on your arm. 

"I'm sure Joey will forgive us if we break the 'no sex' rule just this once." His eyes gleam at you like diamonds in the dimness, and you chuckle softly.


	6. Differentiate

It started with the blue hair.

JC supposed it really started with the gay club fiasco. ("You let them get pictures?" Johnny had yelled, shaking the magazine in Lance's face, while Lance sat serenely and made a comment about "*NSYNC being accepting of all healthy lifestyle choices.") But the blue in place of glinting gold first made JC realize something was building. 

It wasn't particularly daring, but it definitely wasn't JC's Lance. Not the pretty, sweet boy who would go entirely mute before shows out of nervousness, or the kid who was afraid to tell his mom he got a tattoo, or even the guy who sometimes let JC crawl into his lap to fall asleep on the bus, because the others would never let JC hear the end of it if he went to them. This Lance was unpredictable, and JC didn't know quite how to deal with that. 

Lance wasn't the only one making changes. They had all taken some chances in "defining themselves." But this shiny new Lance, who had boundless confidence and three-martini lunches, he was intriguing. 

* * *

Lance was dancing with a girl in a tube top that barely stayed up. Which was what first attracted JC's attention. He refused to wonder why he'd really focused on Lance through the haze of smoke and bodies in the club, but the nearly unclothed girl was a good enough reason to tell himself. Her and the guy that Lance was maintaining eye contact with from across the club. 

Another change, one that JC had only noticed a few months ago. Lance would enter a club, drink, dance with some girls, flirt with a guy, disappear into the depths of the club for a while with said guy, and then show up again. He'd drop into a seat at JC's table, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, stealing JC's drink and winking at him as if he knew something JC was too stupid to realize. After witnessing it once, JC had started going to the clubs with the guys more often. 

Tonight seemed to be no different. Lance detached himself from the girl, and walked towards the guy through the throng of people. JC couldn't tear his eyes away, and thought of how mad Johnny would be if he knew Lance was indiscriminately picking up men, and what if someone found out, and really, someone should stop this before it got out of hand. He was out of his seat before he could wonder what exactly he planned to do. 

Lance seemed shocked to find him in his path, and JC's mouth tumbled into overdrive trying to explain. 

"It's getting late. Why don't we call it a night? 'Cause, really, we've been here long enough, and this club's pretty much the same as any other, and we have an early morning, so, why don't we head out?" 

Lance's brow furrowed for a second, then he got that knowing smirk that JC was still trying to figure out. 

"Jace. Go sit down and have a drink. We'll leave soon." He paused. "Unless you have something more exciting planned that requires my attention?" 

JC couldn't form a response. 

"Yeah, I thought so." He kissed JC on the cheek warmly, and pushed past him. 

* * *

Lance was glib and charming in interviews now. He gave his professional smile, and laughed like he was amused at the pat answers that everyone knew by heart, and showed the perfect amount of excitement over whatever half-assed project they had "in development." JC cornered Justin one day to find out if he was the only one who noticed. 

"Is it just me, or is Lance talking more in interviews? Like, I don't have a problem with it, I'm just wondering when that started happening." 

Justin, mildly annoyed at being distracted form his magazine, looked up at JC in confusion. 

"C, he's actually on the ball when the rest of us have no clue what's up. You want to look like an idiot in front of the press? Then get over it." He went back to reading without a second glance. 

JC resolved to put it out of his mind. 

* * *

That didn't last long. 

JC pounded out a song on his keyboard in this evening's hotel. Lately, he'd had little luck writing anything good, in his opinion (and Chris's, who had few qualms about sharing his thoughts on the matter). Everything seemed muddled and out of focus, and he couldn't pin down a single coherent theme out of all the lyrics he'd thrown around. 

Lance, hunched over his laptop on the couch, was ignoring him. JC decided it was as good a time as any to get some answers. He sat down next to Lance and waited to be noticed. 

"Yes, Jace?" 

"Who are you now?" came spilling out of his mouth, and he figured that was as coherent as he was going to get, so he just waited for an explanation. 

"So, you finally noticed?" JC assumed that was rhetorical, so he sat quietly. "Answer something for me, _JC_ : don't you get tired of feeling like some manufactured boy band clone? Don't you ever wake up and wonder if you're actually you or just the guy who loves singing, loves his mom, and wants a sweet, down-to-earth girl? I just got tired of being that guy. It wasn't me." 

JC nodded dumbly, while Lance continued. 

"It's not like I'm being completely open, I just wanted to clear up the major lies." 

JC nodded again, then a thought occurred to him. 

"What aren't you being open about?" 

Lance stared at him critically for a moment, seeming to gauge his mood. Then he leaned over and lightly kissed JC on the lips, before settling back to look at him. 

"Oh," JC said.


	7. Crush

JC's been fawning over Joey for about a month. He grins stupidly when Joey enters the room. He blushes and looks at the floor when Joey talks to him. When Joey told JC that he looked sexy in the new video, he got tongue-tied and giggly, bouncing around the bus for hours.

Lance tries to not laugh out loud at him. 

* * *

"Joey said that we'll get to see Brianna next week. It sucks that he doesn't get to see her more often, don't you think?" 

Lance, sitting up with his laptop in their hotel bed, grunts in assent, not really listening to JC ramble about Joey from their bathroom. He's told JC he has work to do, and is currently engrossed in a game of Minesweeper. 

"I'm so proud of him, though. He's adapted well. I always knew he would be a great dad." JC comes into the room in boxers, and though he's yawning as he speaks, Lance can hear the barely contained giddiness in his voice. 

Later, when JC's half asleep and curved against him, Lance decides it's time to broach the topic. 

"So, how long have you had this crush on Joey?" The smile is evident in Lance's voice, even as he tries to sound mournful. He can feel JC's eyelashes flutter against his chest as his eyes pop open. JC struggles to sit up, babbling incoherently. 

"I don't. I just. I worry about him, and he's had so much going on lately, and Chris and Justin are off in their own little world, so I thought I should spend more time with him, and you're not mad at me, are you?" He inhales a little raggedly, out of breath and tense. Lance isn't done playing with him, though. 

"You think he's cuter than me, don't you?" He's struggling not to laugh as he finishes the sentence. JC collapses back against his chest, biting Lance's shoulder in annoyance. 

"I hate you." Lance laughs out loud at the statement. "You're really not bothered, though, are you?" 

Lance runs his fingers through JC's hair as he answers. "Should I be worried?" JC shakes his head. "Then I'm not." 

* * *

They've successfully dragged JC out to a club, and a busty girl in a halter top has cornered him on the dance floor when Joey decides to talk to Lance. 

"I'm trying not to encourage him." Lance tears his eyes away from the girl, who's currently looking perplexed by JC's energetic dancing, and gives Joey a measured look. 

"Not that I'm, like, hard to resist or anything. I'm just sayin', I'm trying to ignore it. Because I respect what you two have. And you guys are my friends. And you scare me when you get pissed off." 

Lance grins at Joey, and Joey spontaneously hugs him, slapping him soundly on the back. 

"You'd tell me if you were mad, right?" Lance nods, and Joey smiles broadly, before leaving to chat up the short blonde who's been eyeing him since he started speaking to Lance. The issue has apparently been resolved in Joey's mind, and Lance can't help but be amused by the whole thing. 

He thinks that maybe he should tell Joey that he has no reason to be mad. Because JC lets Lance call him "sugar," though he knows Lance does it just to make him scowl. And he knows that Lance is ticklish, even if he can control it so well, the other guys have stopped trying to torture him that way. They both know that in a fight, they're not allowed to make cracks about respective skills at lyric-writing or acting, because things get ugly fast that way. When JC mumbles sleepily, Lance can understand what he's saying, and when Lance's voice gets clipped and precise, JC knows how to distract him from blowing up over whatever's pissing him off. JC sent him cheesy e-cards every day of filming in Toronto, and Lance will never tell anyone that they were heartfelt enough to make him cry. 

As long as that's all true, Lance couldn't care less about a little crush. 


	8. Lucky

JC is telling Lance about how strange it is that all the words for talking incessantly have short "a" sounds and double consonants.

"...there's babble and chatter and natter and yammer, and don't you think that's a little weird? I mean, that's not a particular set of sounds that makes me think of talking a lot, but there must be some reasoning behind it, you know?" 

Lance just continues to run his fingers through JC's hair, nodding and making an affirmative "hmm" sound from deep in his chest, not looking up from his book. 

JC smiles, dropping a kiss on Lance's cheek, evoking another "hmm." He lies across Lance's lap, gazing up at him. JC's entranced. 

Joey, sitting across the room and openly watching them, thinks it would probably be nice to have what they have. It's not exciting, or sexy, or scandalous. They probably don't inspire grand passion in each other. They're kind of boring. 

He thinks they're lucky. 

Joey has nothing resembling a comfortable relationship. Kelly's decided that her energy could be better spent elsewhere, and he knows himself too well to attempt to find someone else. He wishes he still had her, even if in the end he only had the cheap comfort that came from knowing someone cared enough to be bothered when he fucked up. 

JC's dozed off on Lance's lap now, all angles jutting in odd ways against Lance, whose new muscles have somehow not made him look less cuddly. JC's hair is fanned out along Lance's knees, a halo with blond highlights catching the light from the window. 

Lance looks down at him, giving a gentle, indulgent smile. When he looks up and sees that Joey's caught him doing it, he blushes, smiles ruefully, and turns back to his book.


	9. House

It was really the house's fault. Before they got together, JC had spent a lot of time there, but never really noticed it. But now, with his new fascination for all things Lance, it was glaringly obvious that Lance was, well, kind of strange.

He'd been expecting the Suess room, with its primary colors, and paintings along the walls and ceiling of the Lorax and Cindy-Lou Who and a Star-Belly Sneetch. He was used to the ornately carved doors in odd places, and the antique knives and guns arranged artfully on a wall of Lance's office. Those things were just quirks. 

But, there were other aspects of the house that he hadn't anticipated. He'd been surprised by the player piano in the living room that was set to play Moonlight Sonata at six every evening. He discovered the long hallway with Magritte prints lining one wall, and M.C. Escher on the other. And there was the spare bedroom at the back of the house, which he'd only been in once before deciding that the constant chill and his weird inability to open the door from the inside were more than he could handle. 

It was probably the juxtaposition that bothered him. He just didn't expect weirdness from someone who had his sunglasses organized by lens color, and could rattle off a whole tour's worth of appearances and venues from memory. 

And it wasn't like the other guys didn't have their own brand of oddness. Joey had his strange combination of machismo and theater nerd, going through ballet positions to entertain their dancers when he got bored during rehearsal. And Justin had an aggressive normalcy, all basketball and cars and hot blonde girlfriend, which was sort of creepy in its own right. And, of course, there was Chris. 

JC knew he was pretty "different" on his own. He understood that his world was a little fuzzy around the edges, snapping into sudden clarity at odd moments. He was sometimes surprised that shiny objects in the street didn't distract him. So, he resolved to get used to it. He really liked Lance after all, and it was just another aspect of him to accept. 

After a while, he found out that the player piano was kind of fun for pieces that required more than two hands. And that the back bedroom was perfect for painting, even though his CD player would turn off mysteriously when he played Tori, and independently up the volume on Coltrane. He still stayed the hell away from the weapons. 

Besides, he thought, stretched out on the bright red and yellow carpet with Lance above him, if he could get used to The Cat In The Hat looking down at him while he had sex, he could get used to anything.


End file.
